Louly in Wonderland

Shana Tova

2009-10-06T08:24:00.000-07:00

“Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure, a year in the life?”

For bonafide New Yorkers, the New Year has nothing to do with the bridge-and-tunnel types swarming Times Square on December 31st or that awful crystal ball they hang above the masses (still don’t understand what the correlation between NYE and crystal? Oh wait, never mind)

In truth, the city is reborn in the fall, with the return of its glitterati and intelligencia from their summer diaspora. Manhattan’s vibrant cultural scene comes to an abrupt halt in august, the humidity causing an exodus of its brightest apples to Europe….err, or to Long Island (ahem, for those of us who can’t afford extended vacations in St. Tropez, Long Island provides a cost-effective weekend escape from the concrete jungle, while still conserving those good ‘ole sub-culture distinctions of the Manhattan grid. So Chelsea relocates to its summer outpost by the ocean at the Pines, Trust-fund BoBos migrate to Montauk, Upper East Siders do not venture out of their make-shift colonies in the Hamptons, and Hipsters tend to stay close to their mothership in Williamsburg.

Yes, fall is the season of renewal, the so-called ‘New Year’, and everything from Vogue’s September ‘Fall Fashion’ issue, to the hordes of unchaperoned noisy children on the subway en route to their inner city schools, to the enticing (yet often predictable) Fall Opera Program, to the scores of Oscar-worthy films finally replacing the summer flicks and the hemorrhage some of us suffer as a result of exposure to them (with notable exceptions), to the fleet of new off-off-broadway shows, not to mention Rosh Hashanah.

In this spirit of renewal, I reflect on my fifth year of residency in this marvelous concrete jungle: in a series of 30 posts, I’ll showcase, digest – and at times – culturally re-appropriate things & persons that I believe are quintessentially New York. I will invariable touch on anything that I consider – in my humble, subjective opinion – iconic, all entities (objects and living beings) that embody or otherwise serve to advance the notion that brought me here in the first place: that this is little concrete island is the cultural epicenter of the world. Romanticized of a notion as it is, it’s why I call this enchanted place, home.

Zeitoun Apparitions

2009-01-18T13:33:00.000-08:00

Another excerpt from my work-in-process, untitled novel:

Om-Hassan sat on a bench in the Ramses station. She watched as passengers dragged their bags or their children or a combination of both across the tracks. She heard sighs of exasperation: “It’s late again!”, “Wilad el kalb, can’t they do anything right?”

She felt ambivalent to the happenings around her; she knew today was the day she would experience transcendence. Like the hundreds of thousands who had flocked to Zeitoun from all over Egypt to witness the 'miracle' of the Marion apparition in May of '68, she yearned for contact with divinity.

Om-Hassan stared blankly into the horizon, as if she could see the train approaching, miles away. That was Hassan’s favorite childhood past-time activity, she pondered. She recalled how her smiling child ceremoniously announcing the arrival of the train, describing it with such vivid detail: its navy blue color that distinguishes it from the red cargo trains, the golden eagle, the official emblem of the state painted on its side, its erratic whistle sounds and the smell of burning coal. Passengers on the platform within ear shot would stare in the direction he was pointing, and then dismissingly brush him aside. “Don’t lie, child. That is wrong” they would say. But he wasn’t lying, Om-Hassan thought. She envied him the world he lived in: a world where reality was enhanced by sparks of a flamboyant imagination, a world where history teachers and unicorns, bus conductors and talking crocodiles, fairies and shape-shifting cars, all inhabited the same world he did. She envied him his absolute control over the reality he experienced. In his world, there were no needs, wants or sorrows yet, only fascination.

Her life started the day he was born, she would inform people: neighbors, friends, the grocer, the butcher, anyone willing to listen. People knew her as Om-Hassan, but no one knew her real name, or at least, they thought they didn’t.

In truth, she was born Om-Hassan. Her father, as customary in villages in Upper Egypt, chose her name as a self-fulfilling prophecy. God willing, they reasoned, she would grow-up, marry and bear a (male) child named Hassan. Her nascent life would thus be defined by her future role as bearer of a first-born male child. When she did eventually grow-up (just barely), marry and bear a child, it was not Hassan, but a beautiful girl, whom she subsequently named Zahra. Zahra’s arrival to this world was met with pats on the shoulder and encouraging words, the way an athlete who finishes a race last is told: there’s always next year. Next year you will win gold, next year you will bear a boy. She was the only one happy to see Zahra, the only one who held her in her arms, who looked into her round brown eyes. Her young husband – who is also her cousin - came into her room after labor and told her it would be all right. As if she was a helpless child who broke her doll or scrapped her knee. As if Zahra was stillborn. And when Zahra died a few days later of sudden infant death syndrome, she was the only one to mourn her loss.

She cried herself to sleep for the death of her first-born, to no one’s sympathy. While she slept, her husband took the infant and buried her in the fields. It was harvest season and there was no need to inconvenience the villagers – he reasoned - with a funeral and a proper burial. It was for this reason, Om-Hassan believed, that when Hassan was born less than a year later, he was born with both his spirit and Zahra’s. It was the only way for baby Zahra to live in a place where everyone wanted her to die. Hassan was born with the same round brown eyes that smiled at her the way she thought Zahra’s eyes smiled at her. The baby was received like the prodigy son they believed he was. They held a “Sebou3” ceremony on his 7^th day, a pagan Egyptian ritual conducted for thousands of years, where the village women and children orbit the child in his cradle, holding candles and chanting hymns to ward off the evil spirits and ensure the blessings of the gods.

It was the spring of 1947 and the Cholera epidemic ravaged through Upper Egypt. By fall season, more than 10,000 villagers would be dead, the worst Cholera outbreak in the 20^th century. It would wipe entire villages in mere weeks. The virus, which came on cargo ships from India, found fertile ground in the densely-crowded, un-sanitary living conditions in rural communities. The disease was incurable, and patients developed high fever for 5 days. On the 6^th day, the person either recovered fully or died. When her husband Ali developed fever, the government came and took him away. In an effort to curb the propagation of the disease, the government had created quarantine zones in the desert, akin to concentration camps, where the ill were presumably treated, but were effectively deposited and left to die. Ali never came back. When Hassan developed fever, Om-Hassan, fearing the government would take him too, fled in the darkness of the night, on a train to Cairo. She arrived penniless, with a sick child, and spent the night sleeping on the platform at the central station. When she woke-up, Hassan’s fever was gone and she rejoiced in the certainty that everything else would fall into place. She walked to the affluent neighborhood of Garden City, asking at every palace or mansion if they needed a cook, a maid, a gardener, a nanny. She was turned away on every doorstep, until the reached the bustling palace of Hillali Pacha. Like a bee hive, dozens of servants were racing in and out of the palace gates, presumably on errands in preparation for an evening of festivities. She offered her services and was immediately whisked into the kitchen, to help the chef and sous-chefs prepare a feast for a hundred guests. She labored for hours on end: stirring, simmering, baking, boiling and slicing. When dinner was served, she packed behind the curtains and watched the fair ladies and gentlemen of high society, in lavish gowns and tuxedos, waltzing to the music of an entire orchestra. She had never seen anything like it, the sights, sounds and scents were exotic and almost intoxicating. She left a good impression on the kitchen staff, and they decided to keep her. She would stay in the servants’ quarters, where everyone took an immediate liking to the smiling 5-year old Hassan. Om-Hassan gradually came to know of her patrons. Hillali was an established Cairene upper crust family of Turku-Syrian descent. Hillali Pacha owned a textile company in the delta and some of the most fertile cotton fields in the Nile valley. Madame Hillali was a Portsaid-born French woman. Her father was an engineer for the Suez company. Despite her relatively modest background (daughter of a provincial technocrat) she effortlessly morphed to a lady of high society, one that hosts lavish balls, organizes charity events, the tall fair blonde of delicate features and perfectly fluent French (it was after all, her native tongue) was paradoxically, the very definition of a post-war Egyptian femme moderne, the way Grace Kelly, an American actress, became the face of post-war European royalty. It was as if Matilde Hillali (she preferred to go by the name Vivienne, as Matilde betrayed her family’s provincial French origins) was rehearsing for that role her entire life. Their children, Emile, Adi and Farida inherited their mother’s delicate features, French tongue and all the trappings of an affluent lifestyle. Excessive wealth can take its toll on the emotional development of an offspring: absent workaholic entrepreneur father, absent alcoholic socialite mother and a troop of nannies that revere you like a totem can result in debilitating emotional detachment. Om-Hassan observed in wonderment the children’s morning ritual: dressed by their nannies in school uniforms, marching sullenly down the stairs and cobbling on the marble landing, like kittens separated from their mother, who draw in each other’s bodies for warmth and a sense of safety. Except their faces did not convey any of those emotions, their faces conveyed nothing.

We're all Refuseniks

2009-01-15T19:13:00.000-08:00

By sheer coincidence, I came across footage and interviews from the sizable Anti-war protests in Israel. It is refreshing to hear a voice of reason in midst of all this barbarity, to hear individuals touched by this conflict on a quotidian basis denounce violence, all violence. Whether this violence is directed against a child in Sderot, or an equally innocent child who happens to reside in Gaza.

Perhaps '09 will be the year we will finally concede that one's geographic location should not appreciate/depreciate the value of one's life? That a child - or for that matter, any human being's - death should never be justified, regardless of circumstances?

Will '09 be the year that we - for once - collectively recognize the hypocrisy of paying lip service to 'Peace' while still implicitly/explicitly participating in the cycle of violence by serving in the military or voting a fascist party to power?

That having you heart-in-the-right-place (so to speak) while being part of a killing machine does not humanize/validate what you do? That intentions don't matter, only outcome, and outcome has never mounted to more than constant blood spill?

Will '09 be the year we stop justifying violence, stop blame-shifting, and for once, claim responsibility for the lives lost?

Will '09 be the year we all become Refuseniks? Or are we destined for a dozen more barbaric wars like the one we're engulfed in now?

In highschool in Cairo my sophomore year, we read a poem in English Literature class about a little girl dying in the Warsaw ghetto. It was compelling in light of the European 20th century history class we took that same year, in which the holocaust was a pivotal event. I remember thinking that a part of my humanity was lost forever in Auschwitz, that something died in me that can never be restored. Part of my humanity is dying today on the shores of Gaza.

"What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty and democracy?"

- Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

A week in Oz

2008-08-05T15:08:00.000-07:00

It’s funny how a spit of sand off the coast of Long Island can mean the world to me.

Fire Island is the adult manifestation of my childhood fantasies: the soft sandy beaches (optimal for sand mega-castle-building), the high tides (perfect for tummy-surfing), the sunken forest with its intricate foliage and maze of small paths that lead to no where. It seems like the perfect real-life location for a Little Red Riding Hood re-enactment Disney movie. Except the creatures lurking in the bushes are not wolves (the locals bestowed the name Meat Rack on the woods as euphemism for the type of sports one can play there), so the film would naturally be R-rated.

And fairy tale creatures abound on the island. Bambi-like Deer prance around on the beach, on the suspended roller coaster walkways that connected the island and even in our own back yard; they occasionally rummaged through our trash in search of a hearty meal, unaware that the boys have a passion for southern cooking with its abundant use of oil and butter; hence our leftovers were single-handedly responsible for increased cholesterol levels among the native deer population. And of course, there were drag queens: the urban-dwelling embodiment of either comic-strip Super-heroines with their flawless wig-like hairdos, silhouette outfits and imposing bosoms, not to mention “super” skills…Or, the female nemesis in Disney movies (have you ever noticed how evil women in film – animated or not – are universally depicted in smoky-eye make-up, fabulous frocks, oozing sex appeal and spurting lines in either a British accent or a Park Avenue inflection? As if implying that being evil is tantamount to being sexy, rich, fashionable and intellectually stimulating).

So I imagine as a child, this would have been my playground de preference. I always liked playing dress-up using mommy’s heals and pearls as props and I also loved playing doctor. It appears that playing Dress-up & Doctor are the favorite past-time activities on the island. Evidently, I am no longer a child. Luckily, the island is also a materialization of my wildest adolescent wet dreams: young men with sculpted tanned bodies and chiseled jaws frolicking semi/fully naked with/around other young men with sculpted tanned bodies and chiseled jaws. The island, with its strategically placed hot tubs and hot pools in every other house provided a splendid backdrop for all sorts of hedonistic activities. I suppose that is what Herodotus envisioned as his Utopian society. Or maybe I am just projecting my nymph-loaded fantasies on poor Herodotus. If I had visited the island @ age 15, with all those raging teenage hormones in my system, I would have had a heart attack from the sexual/sensory stimulation. Luckily I’m 24 and much more apt at acting non-chalant and/or concealing my woody.

And lastly, I came to the pleasant realization over the week that all my friends are alcoholics. When you’re being served a Bloody Mary with breakfast at the ungodly hour of 9am, you know its time for those AA meetings. Of course, weekend drunken house pool parties during the day, drunken naked house pool parties at night, evening High Teas, Low Teas, culminating in the overnight Beach Party made Sobriety jump out the window and kill herself.

Of course, no vacation would be complete without The Diva (read: Madonna), who was omnipresent throughout the trip, thanks to Queen B’s iPod dock station, which made certain we were honored with Madge’s company in our cabin every minute of the day. We ate, drank, drank, drank, drank, slept and woke-up to her voice. Isla Bonita is forever associated in my mind with hangovers.

Deus ex Machina

2008-07-10T12:25:00.000-07:00

In classical Greek Drama, fantastical plot twists were the choix-de-jour of a fair number of ancient Greek playwrights. When confronted by a dicey situation, or when all hope is lost to avert a crisis, or when tragedy strikes, etc. the writer simply stages a divine intervention from the gods of Olympia to resolve the issue and create a happy ending. Couple can’t marry and live happily ever after because the groom was just murdered? No problem, just introduce Zeus unto the stage before the curtain falls to miraculously resurrect the groom from his deathly state. Crisis averted, you may kiss the bride!

This plot-technique was called Deus Ex Machina, or God on Machine, since those last-minute plot-twisting gods were usually actors propped on a huge crane, literally, god on a machine.

I couldn’t help but think that, in light of the recent fantastical turn of events in my life. After what felt like a decade (but was a mere two months) of waiting for my H-1b visa, preparing myself mentally for a miserable closeted life in Egypt, after serving a mandatory 3 year military service (shoot me now, please) and thinking, how on earth would I get an h-1b with a success chance of 40% at a lottery? (if you think 40% is a high probability, then you’ve never met me or my bad luck), I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to leave the country, ending up in Egypt getting drafted (read: royally fucked) by the Egyptian army.

Out of nowhere, like an Olympian god on a crane, came a ruling by the department of homeland security to extend the stay of visa applicants so they are not forced to leave the country for a gap period. Then, I was informed I received a visa. Honestly, I wanted to kiss everyone on the subway back home that day, including the Hobos in Penn station.

First item on the agenda: to Party like its 1999 and I’m a big a Drag Queen on Crack.

DISCLAIMER: Te operative term is “like”. Do not write me back asking if I’m into 90’s pop music (I f***** love it) or drag (I got a whole collection of fierce wigs, but I’m a strictly-Halloween kinda gal. I only drag for one night in October, just like the housewife that will only have anal sex with her husband on his birthday. That way it will always be special. *giggle*

As for crack, I tend to talk about it as if I walk around carrying it in my purse, but those of you who really know me, know I’m horrified of anything that goes up one’s nose. My mommy used to say: “the only thing that was meant to be shoved up my nose is an index finger. Everything else is an abomination”. I made that one up, but wouldn’t it be funny if she did say that? Secretly, I wish I had a crazy mother.

The only thing in my purse (ah, I mean my macho man handbag) is my make-up. Kidding! Maybe…

So I went to Fire Island for the fourth of July weekend and watched the “Invasion of the Pines” ceremony unfold. It’s too surreal an experience to describe by words, so I’ll do an interpretive dance for you…Or, you can watch my video:

A Mad Tea Party

2008-06-19T02:30:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from my work-in-process, untitled novel:

It was a mid-summer evening, and an assembly of well-coiffed women stood on the turf of the Maadi Croquet court and coddled in small talk. They were the last of their kind within a 3-mile radius, for it was June and the upper class's seasonal migration to the north – to Alexandria proper, but more recently to the Bourgeois colonies of Montazah, Ma'moura and Agami that were in vogue - had commenced almost a month ago, promptly at the closing of the school year. For 3 months of summer, Cairene women would whisk away their children and their nannies to evade the stifling summer months in Cairo. And for the Cairine girls who had neither nannies nor children but wanted both, summer was the official hunting season for eligible bachelors. The beaches of Agami and Montazah were the new chasing grounds for young women with any aspirations of upward social mobility. It was the sport of preference of any lady-of-society-in-the-making. They could stroll around in décolleté swim suits to demonstrate to their suitors – or the matchmakers that represent them – that they hold the proper credentials for the title of Wife.

An in a recent, most exciting development, the rapid commercialization of hair spray introduced dramatic hairstyles to the beach scene, hairdos like Jackie Kennedy's flap, once avoided in adherence to the laws of nature (namely Alexandria's notorious humidity, capable of reducing slick styles into bundles of frizz), a new generation of women braved the elements and marched to beach resorts in diamond-studded do's; hordes of Audrey Hepburn wannabes a la Breakfast at Tiffany's frolicking at seaside resorts. This was Cairo in 1962.

On the turf, the conversation of the feminine assemblage centered on the earlier sighting of Madame Rafik – née Angela Antonioni - at the tennis courts, allegedly accompanying her son Adham, Maadi's undisputed tennis champ and equally undisputed teenage heartthrob. The alleged sighting aroused excitement among the crowd, mainly because Monsieur Rafik was arrested a mere few days ago, for alleged subversive communist activities. The effect of a potentially fresh rumor was decidedly orgasmic: the women could not contain their excitement at the prospects, and proceeded to deconstruct every angle of the unfolding story. What body of etiquette governed the behaviors of wives of polticical prisoners? Was it appropriate / scandalous to appear in an elite social club while said spouse is touted by police in interrogation rooms? Was their a decorum mourning period for which, not unlike a widow, the wife must reflect on her loss in the confines of her private lodgings before resuming normal day-to-day activity? Was it even appropriate for the wife of an alleged communist to indulge in daily activity in a decidedly Bourgeois, and - hence capitalist - private social club? Would that be an indication that her husband is innocent of such horrid accusations? Or did he in fact betray his principles by blending in this irreverent garden community and calling it home? Or has she betrayed his ideals? This ignited a somewhat intellectually stimulating discussion among the women. The urban-come-suburban former downtown Catholic school girls argued Trotsky vs. Stalinism, and rhetorically pondered the question: is the revolution a constant process or two-phase? The wives of officers, provincial-come-suburban women of no particular formal education to draw on, were suddenly anxious at the Russian-names-dropping of their gossip-club colleagues and decided to divert the conversation to the silly and benign, the way they always do whenever the conversation became too political or less cliché. In the next few years, as the military ruling class strengthened its hold over Egyptian Intellegencia, the provincial mentality of avoidance of all things serious would reign supreme: a new unwritten book of etiquette cautioning against the mere mention of authors or ideas in casual conversation to avoid embarrassing / offending those who never read a book (who by the mid-60's would be appointed at every critical administrative position in the state). In a book she wrote and published years later, Angela would dub it the politics of trivialization.

Angela walked out of so-called "Social Building" and stood in its terrace, a depressing modern (read: minimalist) two-story cement block that was christened only a few days back. Angela was lost in one depressing thought upon visiting the new mammoth building (mammoth relative to all the smaller structures dotting the Maadi club): why was her world collapsing so suddenly? The terrace overlooked the croquet court, and the sight of a posse of middle-aged Barbie dolls first startled then intrigued her: when did they start allowing stilettos on the croquet turf? Then she spotted Madame Karim (née Fadila Hussein) in a Liza Mennelli frock and instantly got her answer. Every tea party has a Queen (or so the proverb goes, or should) and if the queen of this tea party also serves the role Wife to General Karim (dutifully promoted from Officer to General after the '52 Coup d'Etat) then she will have her tea and cake on the turf if she so pleases, stilettos and all. In fact, she could have a marching band perform on the turf to go with the tea. Or even a firing squad, but that would be in poor taste. She found herself entertaining the thought of her own croquet-firing-squad, but who would they shoot? Officer Gameel for starters, the prison guardian who denied her a visit to her husband this morning and every morning, and possibly Madame Karim for ruining the turf with her stilloto-trotting posse. A mischievous smile came across her face momentarily as she basked in that thought. This was Angela's coping mechanism with tragic circumstances and life's little annoyances alike, she imagined herself capable of terrible vengeance against the perpetrators, indulged in the dream-like thought, then banished it from her memory altogether.

Meanwhile on the turf, Madame Karim had spearheaded the movement to steer the conversation from Trotsky to Angela's sighting in a white Coco Chanel dress with an elusive hemline. Mrs. Gamayil (née Geneviève Frangieh), the resident Femme Moderne expressed her doubt that a woman like Angela, known for her austere appearance would don a trendsetting Chanel dress. Others shared anecdotal evidence to that point. They were lost in a transcendental moment of joyful revelations when they noticed sensed the towering figure shadowing them, and synchronously turned around to see Angela standing on the terrace above them. She stood still, her hands to her sides, staring down at the now silent crowd beneath. The sun was setting behind her. To the women, all they could make of Angela was a silhouette of a slender, tall woman against the backdrop of a red sun, casting her shadow on the entire pack. Her appearance was both iconic and imposing. To the Catholic school girls among them, the fair woman in the white dress with a Fire-y glow was of mythic proportions. They believed they were witnessing an apparition of the Madonna.

Broken Thoughts

2008-06-19T02:01:00.000-07:00

There was an international writer's convention in Iceland this week. All card-holding members of the World Organization of Writers (W.O.W) had to attend, or risk losing their licenses. They drafted a proposal which stated that "we, the writers of the world, proclaim that the muse visits while we are writing, not before".

President W. Bush claimed this was a conspiracy by the Axis of Evil to encourage hard-working Americans to read & write (!). In a white House press release, the president stated that "writing was just as un-American as universal healthcare, communism, homosexuality, stem-cell research, diplomacy and anything else they do in France". To further his point, the press release intentionally misspelled the words healthcare, communism, homosexuality and stem-cell.

Bin Laden appeared in a tape later that evening on AlJezira, denouncing the Muse's Visit as "a sinful display of debauchery! The improperly-veiled muse would visit a non-related male while he is writing (In Islam, naturally only men are allowed to write) and seduce him to fornicate with her. It is yet further proof that western infidels seek only to destroy the moral fiber of our young men while they are transcribing Allah's names (in Islam, nothing else is worth writing) on the side of bazookas we are firing against the infidels."

Al Musto Lopez, spokesman for the Latina Immigration Reform Coalition, said this incident yet again proves how vital Latino immigrants are to the American economy, for they are take up tasks that Americans refuse to perform, like reading & writing. Without Latinos, he questioned, "How will the average hard-working American understand his TV guide? That's a lot of Palabras....I mean words. Who will read them their TV guides out loud for $5.95 an hour? Certainly not the terroristos"
And in a statement released from the heavenly palaces, God - who had retired from the spotlight and had not been seen in public in nearly two millennia, following the tragic death of his son in a hit-and-crucify accident by an unidentified Roman Legionnaire (Police believe the suspect may have fled across the borders to Mexico, or the Incas, as it was called back then) - said it warmed his heart to know that his legacy as the World's Greatest Writer has inspired so many others to follow suit. God is best known for his two best selling novels "The Torah: All you need to know about my Chosen People" and "The Bible: Why I sent my son to die for your sins". Both novels have been best-sellers for centuries, with millions of people around the world claiming it is their ultimate guide to understanding this world and life itself. God is also responsible for a number of key accomplishments, including the creation of the world itself, the death of the millions of human beings who read his book, and millions who didn't, wars, volcanoes, earth quakes (the term "natural disaster" and "god's work" can be used interchangeably) as well as the design of the highly controversial platypus (some argue it of all his 'animal creations', that was the most downright 'retarded'). He has also been suspected of writing "The Quran: The guide to an Austere Life" under the guise of a nom-de-plume (the book was signed Allah, and for years, readers have asserted that it is god in fact who wrote it anonymously, fearing backlash from the avid readers of his first two best-sellers. God has repeatedly denied the allegation, stating that he does not speak Arabic and that he has never met Mohammed, though he admitted that they might have chatted online before Mohammed started claiming they were "meant to be together" and began stalking him)

Entertainment weekly published pictures of God parading in a Speedo on Malibu beach. The picture showed him cuddling with a handsome young man of Hispanic heritage. A comparative analysis of god's nose showed he may have undergone Rhinoplasty. The magazine claims there is evidence to suggest he may have "undergone a little Lipo too".

Shakespeare congratulated god on his return from early-retirement, reminded him that it is HE who is truly the world's greatest writer. Shakespeare asserted that surely, no one could compare the poetic epiphanies of "The Tempest" or "A mid-Summer Night's Dream" to the simple-minded, simple-worded commands of say, Leviticus in the Old Testament. Shakespeare compared God's writing to computer code like C++ "totally incomprehensible and stupid". He also hinted that God may have plagiarized other writers, as both the Bible and the Torah lack coherence, continuity or even a writer's voice. "Dude, it's as if god just copied & pasted a few articles from the New York Post and made a collage of the little pieces. It's totally pathetic".

God responded by ordering Bin Laden to kill Shakespeare

Swimming in a Fish Bowl

2008-06-19T01:36:00.000-07:00

In an age of Youtube, MySpace and a seemingly endless streams of reality shows, Voyeurism has transformed from a reticent obsessive-compulsive behavior to an openly embraced obsessive-compulsive behavior that we collectively engage in, almost like a shared cinematic experience.

Yousry Nasrallah's "Aquarium" explores the voyeuristic nature of our culture. Tarek, the protagonist and anti-hero suffers from a compulsive habit of roaming around the the botanic gardens in Zamelik

In the traiditon of Agitprop theatre, "Aquarium" is a politically charged, socially-conscious artistic endeavor. The film diagnoses the symptoms of our societal decay, our state of mind.
Cinema at the end of the Silent Era and the glossy Hollywood productions - dubbed "talkies" - that followed in the 1930's fostered similar behavior patterns. For many men and women faced with the harsh realities of the Great Depression and the great world war looming ahead, movie theatres virtually served as parallel universes, where they can live vicariously through the beautiful and glamorous heroes and heroines of the silver screen. They could, for a short period, forget the increasingly hostile, ugly world outside the theatre and experience a color-saturated, melodic dream-like existence, albeit short-lived. This was an Escapist mechanism of sorts, a mechanism that is not unlike what we exercise today.

Tarek, the protagonist, is a 30-something anesthesiologists who enjoys listening to the stories his patients mutter under anesthesia before undergoing surgery. He is excited by the prospect of dissecting the lives of others, their secrets and most intimate feelings and thoughts…uninvited.

He applies the same approach to those in his primary vicinity, irritating his phone-sex compulsive friend, who verbally objects to the fact that his life is an open book to Tarek, wheras Tarek reveals nothing about himself. Tarek goes through the motions of his daily life – visit girl friend, tend to hospital-ridden ailing father, anesthize his patients, etc. – with no emotional attachment, with borderline apathy. He is a mere observant in his own life story, a silent spectator.

The repercussions of cultivating a voyeuristic culture to society-at-large is made clear whenever Tarek ventures into the world: driving by silent "Kefaya" protesters lining the streets and blocking road. We see them through his windshield, sullen and muted. He passes them by as a mere observer, not participant.

Leila fares no better as the other side of the apathy coin. A successful radio show hostess, she is constantly stretching the boundaries of social acceptance on her late-night show, airing confessions of men and women with (often sexual) predicaments considered taboo. She lends a sympathetic ear, but little else. Like Tarek, she is apathetic to the political turmoil around her. She refuses to participate in events raising awareness on AIDS or anything remotely resembling activism. She reasons that it is not "her role".

Fear and repression are the dominant themes in Nasrallah's film. Fear of ostracizing is what prevents a mother from reporting to Police the rape of her own daughter. One of the most compelling scenes is one where the rape victim is lying back in the operation chair, anesthized in preparation for an abortion operation: her eyes and mouth wide open, listening to her mother talk to Tarek about her predicament. Unable, to shout, scream, move, she is paralyzed, figuratively by repressive societal norms that condemn her for a crime she did not commit.
Fear is what prevents Leila and Tarek from political activism, fear is what forces the Christian landlord to hand-pick only secular tenants.

Admittedly, all those fears are well founded. Honor killings are a reality for many rape victims, police brutality is a reality for political activists and religious intolerance is a reality for anyone that does not subscribe to fundamental Islam.

Fear is what drives the central and peripheral characters in "Aquarium" to commit unforgivable acts, or worse, do noting at all, paralyzed indefinitely, in a constant sleep-walking state, going through the motions, numb and mute.

Perhaps Nasrallah's worst fear is fear as a permanent state-of-mind, and the chronic paralysis that it triggers in people of all walks of life.

Like Canaries in a coal mine, we die

2008-06-19T01:05:00.000-07:00

The title is an allusion to the 19th century practice by coal miners described below:

"Early coal mines did not feature ventilation systems, so miners would routinely bring a caged canary into new coal seams. Canaries are especially sensitive to methane and carbon monoxide, which made them ideal for detecting any dangerous gas build-ups. As long as the canary in a coal mine kept singing, the miners knew their air supply was safe. A dead canary in a coal mine signalled an immediate evacuation."
-Michael Pollick

The expression in mainstream culture refers to the sacrifice of one's life serving others. Perhaps most disturbing about that analogy is that the act of sacrifice is involuntary, non-consensual and abrupt. One minute you are singing happily, the next minute you're dead and serving as a warning for others. Your death, ironically serves a purpose more profound than all your life contribution put together. The contrast between the fragile beauty, grace and music radiating from our feathered friend, set against the backdrop of the harsh coal mining environment, is astounding.

Living like Canaries in a Coal Mine is how I imagine anyone stuck in Iraq today that is considered a weaker life form, i.e. lower on the food chain. If you are a child, woman, gay, transgendered or part of a religious minority, you are especially vulnerable. The situation in Mesopotamia plays out like an experiment in social Darwinism gone awry. The savagery that propels individuals, without any prospect of gains to throw acid on a 5-yr old child until his face melts to the bone (full story on CNN), or stone a pre-adolescent girl to death for "lewd" behavior (video is on youtube) or setting a trans-gendered woman (formerly a singer/entertainer during Saddam's regime) on fire then dragging her charcoaled corpse into the street for the curious to inspect her burnt genitals. This is Iraq today, nothing short of barbaric.

Yet, they speak of progress. 6 years after the war, the accomplishments include holding a democratic election, where people unanimously voted to make Islamic Sharia the source of legislation (making stonings and beheadings closer to becoming a reality nation-wide), and changing the flag, by highlighting in green the words "Allah Akbar" (God is Great) on the same red, white and black background of old. The wording of the human rights protection clauses in the constitution was changed to specifically name homosexuals as humans excluded from those rights. This is done by a U.S. backed government in a U.S occupied territory.

In one of the most under reported news stories and one of the most telling, a young Afghani journalist has been sentenced in Afghanistan to death for being caught with articles (which he didn't write) that criticize Islam. A man is going to be sentenced to death by a court of law by a U.S propped government in a country under full U.S military control, for questioning Islam?

When the U.S forces occupied Germany after WWII, Germans were forced to change their constitution, forced to free the Jews in concentration camps, forced to rewrite their school textbooks, forced to eliminate hate speech and propaganda from their media outlets. None of those changes were negotiable. No one ever talked about respecting the "cultural sensitivities" of Nazi Germans. The ideology itself that produced the barbarity we saw in Western Europe was banned altogether, along with Hitler's memoir. Germany underwent extreme Social Engineering under the U.S administration of the time to rehabilitate the country to "rejoin the ranks of world nations" so to speak. Same for Japan: the allied forces wrote a new constitution, granting women the right to vote and abolishing "Shinto" as a state religion, and that was still 1945. Why is it different for Iraq? Why are they allowing them to imbed hate-speech and discrimination in their new constitution? Or is occupation reduced to killing innocent civilians on the street? We are setting in motion a system that will undoubtedly be more repressive than anything Iraq has seen under Saddam.

Today, virtually all dictatorships the world round are backed by the U.S government. In Saudi Arabia, women can't even drive or sign a legal document or walk/travel alone. To do virtually anything besides eating and breathing requires the consent and chaperoning of her legal guardian. It goes without saying that they aren't allowed the right to vote and their statements are inadmissible in court. There is no minimum age for marriage, because the prophet married Aisha when she was 6. Gay men are beheaded sporadically, and so are atheists. Yet Saudi is the U.S.'s biggest ally in the region. How?

None of these governments would survive a day without supplies from the U.S Arms industry. The very technology that Saudi uses to filter internet content nation-wide (censorship in its most extreme form, you cannot access any website in the kingdom unless the government approves it) is provided by an American company. This complicity is criminal.

Like canaries in a coal mine, we die – men, women and children who aren't tough enough to survive in the harsh Middle Eastern social landscape – unbeknownst to us that the very sympathetic lads that brought us with them to the coal mine to entertain are the ones responsible for our eventual demise.

I refuse to die.

Careless Whispers in the Enchanted Forest of my Dreams

2008-02-21T22:38:00.000-08:00

It started out like any other day. I woke up in a hurry, scrambled to find an ironed shirt and 10 million items to stuff in my bag (headphones, novel, laptop, gym shorts, etc) in a race against time to make my daily pilgrimage from the island to the mainland, the ritual known as the morning commute to work.

But this was no ordinary day. The 7:45 train to Rahway was a double-decker, a sudden change from the usual relic-from-the-70’s-stinky-leather fleet of trains owned by NJ transit. As I made my way through, I was consumed with the sights and sounds of the slick, assembly-line-fresh train, and my eyes watered. You see, double-deckers are forever associated in my mind with my magical summer in Fire Island.

Have you ever visualized paradise? I never quite did, I gave up heaven some time ago, along with other childhood fantasies. But now I can describe it as vividly as I saw it: a lush, green, sunken Forest by the ocean. The dense growth hid the beautiful wooden summer houses and the hordes of foxes and deer and beautiful boys roamed its grounds; an enchanted forest of mysterious creatures. Fire Island means the world to me because it was on its shores that I decided to make New York my home. The love/hate relationship I had with the Guliani-sanitized city evolved into pure affection the moment my feet touched its dunes. I was in love for the first time, with my life, amidst such beauty (and I’m not talking about the trees. Yes, they were beautiful too, and trees are exotic where I come from, but if I was danderphilic, I would have moved to Yellow Stone Park) In a sense, Fire Island was New York’s saving grace.

But fast-forward to February, the cold, cruel winter has taken its toll on my mood and I suffer silently from seasonal depression. It’s funny how a smell or sound can swiftly transport us to another world, where things were once brighter and happier. Where laughs were genuine and handsome strangers readily became friends over a game of volley or a Mojito. Yes, I saw heaven and it had Disco Balls aplenty.

I was spared a similar walk-down-memory-lane in the evening when my manager offered me a ride home instead of a misrable train ride. Crammed in a car with two other co-workers and an excellent manager with v. questionable driving skills (his speed varied with the tempo of the songs playing in the car, and it ranged from sickingly-fast to oh-my-god-were-gonna-die fast). I phased in and out of their conversation, which was virtually always about a. Work b. Marriage or C. India (they're all FOB) topics which aren't dear to my heart. instead I stared out at the clear sky and wondered why you can only see the stars in Jersey.

Then, "Careless Whispers" came on the airwaves and all mundane conversation subsided to give way for something magical. The car radiated with a sudden joie-de-vivre, as if Geroge Michael was everyone's childhood friend. My manager showed-off his mastery of the lyrics, my Team Lead flexed her vocal chords in inticipation of those high notes, and the third guy, uncertain who George michael really is, compensated for his lack of cultural capital by amenating an unusual humming sound. In unison, we sang (or mummbled) the chorus line:

"I'm never gonna dance again
guilty feet have got no rhythm
though it's easy to pretend
I know you're not a fool

Should've known better than to cheat a friend
and waste the chance that I've been given
so I'm never gonna dance again
the way I danced with you"

I went home, played the song and cried.

Defining Kitsch

2008-01-12T18:49:00.000-08:00

In this piece my social commentary and cultural musings somehow turned out more bitchy than usual (and that's an understatement). I guess Donald brings out the best in me, huh? Not for the faint-hearted! Skip this entry or beware: you're in for a healthy dose of my super-bitch rantings.

So recently, a friend of mine, who happens to be French (fresh-off-the-boat) asked me what the word 'Kitsch' meant and i stopped dead in my tracks, the way most people who have come to know and use a word for decades do when they realize they can't really describe it without using the word 'like' a dozen times:

- uhm, it's like art but like, not very genuine, you know? uhm, like too much of it, like a lot to the point of bad taste. but not like just cheap, like it's not about price, but it could look cheap, you know?

That's how i sounded in my head, so i decided to save myself the embarrassment of of having a public blond moment by skipping the definition and going right for the Examples (that's all that us foreigners understand anyway. seriously, have you ever tried communicating with one of us?)

So in case you're ever caught off-guard having to define the same word, this visual-aid may come in handy: The Trump Towers. And I know my towers! Having spent most of my New York career shuffling between UES & UWS where those hideous structures are splattered.

Actually, why even mention the hideously bombastic towers? The Donald himself is Kitsch, and for that matters, so is his wife (OMG, Ivana Trump? Classic Eastern European Kitsch-on-wheels). Divorcée you say? well, you don't suppose I was going to talk about his current middle-america-Super-Model-before-stretch-marks-ended-her-career new trophy wife, huh? But at least she's a Trophy wife! that's something, right? Zeus knows, i always wanted to be a trophy wife. But no house chores! you know that crap would never work, i can't even supervise a maid without f***ing it up (kidding! I don't have a maid. honest. cross my heart). No, I'll just stick to the sex duties and shoe shopping. I have nothing to worry about, no man ever left his trophy wife because she couldn't supervise the maids...hello? that's why they have butlers!

But I digress. Back to the Trumps: they're so Kitsch, their offspring look like pink flamingos. I mean whatever happened to that rule of thumb, that all babies are cute? whoever made that up clearly never laid eyes on a Trump baby. Clearly those ugly apples didn't fall far from that ugly tree. And then The Donald had the audacity to name his son Barron, Barron Trump! And then publicly announce his chubby arrival to this world (C-section, for sure) on Imus in the Morning. Yup, the show that got canceled because Don Imus called someone a n***y-head. V. Classy.

Nevermind the 10 million tower/eyesores that dot every major city in America (and by America, I mean USA because Canadians know better than to let him build anything, and the Mexicans...well, whatever he built there we probably never heard of because it blends in with its surroundings, i.e other gaudy gold-plated third-world cement-structures)

I'm not even questioning the artistic and architectural integrity of the buildings . I'm just saying that the architect who designed these aforementioned gold-plated gems should be guillotined a la french, so these atrocities never happen again.

And of course, it wouldn't be a Trump Tower if it didn't have the words Trump Tower gold-plated and affixed on its entrance, as if there was some ambiguity. Like a dog who sprays the bushes to mark his territory, Trump marks his by gold-plating it.

Two notable exceptions are the Trump World Towers (called the world towers because they face the U.N headquarters in midtown, which apparently makes the neighboring Trump building by association v. worldy) and the Trump International Hotel (As opposed to what? local hotels? are they made for New Yorkers to stay in when they're just bored of their apartments?)

And I'm not forgetting the hair piece: his sister - a prominent NJ judge - wears one too (how the defendants maintain a straight face, i don't know) I'm wondering, does the hairpiece run in the family? or did they get a family group discount at the wig salon?

Hillary, Simone & Mythic Queens

2008-01-12T07:43:00.000-08:00

Apparently I wasn't the only one who found their voice this week.

I wanted Hillary to win from the very first moment the New York Times divulged her candidacy-in-the-making back in 2004. My obsession with her had nothing to do with her politics: She tends to hold Centrist-Left positions, and is corporate-oriented, interest-group-serving. Hardly a treat for my radical-left politics (as if anyone that wasn't nominated by the Green party would be). Yet, somehow, this woman has captured by awe and infatuation.

I couldn't put my finger exactly on what drew me in, until i read this poll this morning, that showed (to my horror) 80% of Gay men in NY supported her for presidency.

More importantly, it dawned on my that her imposing presence, dominant personality and somewhat hawkish political stances exuded sex-appeal (or Wonderlust, or whatever new coined term-du-jour).

This is somewhat consistent with my choices of childhood heroines. I always felt sorry for Snow White, yet I could never get myself to denounce her Queen Step-Mother. The Queen spelt elegance, extravagant beauty, and perhaps, a hint of Evil: qualities that for some reason I find (till this day) v. appealing in women.

Case-in-point: I recently rediscovered the poise and power of Nina Simone's voice on a scenic trip in my manager's car, back from Jersey. In reading her biography, I discovered her psychotic tantrums, her violent behavior and her dominant presence, onstage and off. The discovery only crystallized her iconic stature in my eyes. (Also, yet again, she too apparently had a huge gay following).

Perhaps the roots of this fascination lies in the community's collective pyche: marginalized by society-at-large (and historically deemed subversive), is it no wonder that we idolize characters that were on constant defience of roles adhered to them by society? Hillary in shedding the skin of Mrs. Clinton and stepping out of his shadows, not to mention daring to be the first Ms. President!; Nina, rejecting her Methodist upbringing and singing the Songs of the Devil, even denouncing 'Racist' America alltogether and relocating to the South of France; The 'Evil' Queen, the antithesis of Snow White who optimized mid-century WASP women of good upbringing and good breeding: Soft-spoken, plain-beauty, child-like, do-gooder, simple-minded, Virgin..and White.

Defiance and insubordination, are sexy traits.

2008-01-12T07:03:00.000-08:00

I resurrected this blog from its deathly state, after an exciting 2-month run in early 2006. I couldn't help but marvel, reading my posts from back then (and deleting several of them, out of shame) how my (writer's) voice changed in a mere 2 years. Perhaps it is simply a reflection of my state of mind (then & now) than it is a sign of progression of thought or intellect (or god forbid, personal growth)

Circumstantial evidence point to my nocturnal habits as a college students: all my postings back then were logged at an ungodly hour of the morning, possibly in-between pending papers or exam-cramming exercises.

Perhaps my voice at the time (which seems so foreign to me now) is result of a combination of anxiety, sleep deprivation and ADD (propelling me to drop my paper and write amusing nonsense that no one else read). Perhaps I am at a different place now, and feel disconnected with my former self.

Or perhaps, I have yet to find my writer's voice, condemned to always read my own writings as if for the first time, as if written by someone else. I cannot read anything I ever write without feeling a tingly need to edit it into oblivion, even 4th grade essays my mother saved.

Memory

2008-01-12T05:48:00.000-08:00

Dalida, lyrics of her song "Avec le temps", 1971

Avec le temps, va, tout s'en va
On oublie le visage et l'on oublie la voix
Le cœur quand ça bat plus
C'est pas la peine d'aller chercher plus loin
Faut laisser faire, c'est très bien.

Avec le temps,
Avec le temps, va, tout s'en va
L'autre qu'on adorait, qu'on cherchait sous la pluie
L'autre qu'on devinait au détour d'un regard
Entre les lignes, entre les mots et sous le fard
D'un serment maquillé qui s'en va faire sa nuit
Avec le temps tout s'évanouit

Avec le temps
Avec le temps, va tout s'en va
Même les plus chouettes souvenirs.
Ça, t'as une de ces gueules !
À la galerie, j'farfouille dans les rayons de la mort
Le samedi soir quand la tendresse s'en va toute seule

Avec le temps
Avec le temps, va, tout s'en va
L'autre à qui l'on croyait, pour un rhume, pour un rien
L'autre à qui l'on donnait du vent et des bijoux
Pour qui l'on eût vendu son âme pour quelques sous
Devant quoi l'on s'traînait comme traînent les chiens
Avec le temps, va, tout va bien

Avec le temps
Avec le temps va tout s'en va
On oublie les passions et l'on oublie les voix
Qui vous disaient tout bas, les mots des pauvres gens
"Ne rentre pas trop tard surtout ne prends pas froid"

Avec le temps
Avec le temps, va tout s'en va
Et l'on se sent blanchi comme un cheval fourbu
Et l'on se sent glacé dans un lit de hasard
Et l'on se sent tout seul, peut-être mais peinard
Et l'on se sent floué par les années perdues
Alors vraiment
Avec le temps on n'aime plus.

The Terrible Pleasure of a Double Life

2008-01-12T05:29:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Grey

"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an intellectual expression, and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless, beautiful creature, who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him."

New Year!

2006-01-30T05:14:00.000-08:00

I was in Butler library doing my Molecular Bio homework and munching on some cookies when an anonymous girl with a cute headscarf walked in and wished me a happy new year. I didn't know what to make of it at first as we were clearly in late January and NYE was long gone. I assumed she must have snorted some Adderall. I asked her innocently if she meant the chinese new year and she beamed at me some more like I was the one snorting crack. "No silly, it's the new Islamic Hijra year. Kol sana wenta tayib!!". I gave her a cookie, reverted to procrastination mode and headed to the computer lab.

See, I had no idea what islamic year we're in. so I looked it up online and it's 1428! I mean, I knew we were somewhere in the 15th century, but 1428? my, those lunar years pass by oh-so-fast. Oh well.

Interestingly, I found this picture of an ancient Persian Tapestry depicting the prophet on his ascension trip to heaven, riding on Boraq (the Quranic flying creature).

2006-01-16T01:03:00.000-08:00

It took my 3 years to finally post something on my blog. You know what else it took? my friends went on an all-boys trip to Las Vegas for the weekend, leaving me to fend for myself in the jungles of Chelsea.

I mean, who goes to Vegas anymore? if you haven't developped a gambling addiction and are not keen on blow jobs from hookers, whats Vegas got to offer you?

I mean it doesn't make sense unless you're gay and you want to go watch Celine Dion, Cirque du Soleil, or some other homosexuals-only french-Canadian gig.

G-d, what would Vegas do without Canada?

Arrested Development

2006-01-12T01:15:00.000-08:00

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted my very own blog, atleast since the tender age of 19. Ofcourse, in my 22 years of existence, I've wanted alot of things: I wanted to be a Diva for one.

Oh, and not just any diva: a larger-than-life, Wonderwoman meets Cher meets meets the 3 (original) Charlie's Angels put together. and yes I do realize that Farah Fawcett is not a true Diva, defined as one with "thoroughly captivating and commanding stage presence". but back in the 80's when I was growing up, we didn't have Googgle dictionary to answer our every philosophical whim.

In any case, my mother never tires of telling the story of how when 2 year-old Louly said his first words, they weren't "babba" or "mamma", they were the lyrics from one of Dalida's songs. Ofcourse in baby talk it amounted to sweet mummblings, but it was the start of a great career....that ended ubruptly at age 11 when I no longer could reach characteristically high notes and got kicked out of school choir (hitting puberty can be rough). In any case, keeping a blog seems like the next best thing to reach the heights of fame!

Here's the song that started it all @ age 2: